Where Eternity Sleeps
by LordsofLazarus
Summary: Harry could take no more, and so he ran. At the tender age of eleven, Harry Potter took to the streets. And from there, he was thrown headlong into a battle unlike anything he'd ever seen before… Who would have known?
1. The Runaways

Where Eternity Sleeps

Chapter 1; _'The Runaways'_

* * *

><p>"<em>Because I could not stop for Death-<br>He kindly stopped for me-  
>The Carriage held but just Ourselves-<br>And Immortality._

_We slowly drove-He knew no haste  
>And I had put away<br>My labor and my leisure too,  
>For His Civility-<em>

_We passed the School, where Children strove_  
><em>At Recess-in the Ring-<em>  
><em>We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain-<em>  
><em>We passed the Setting Sun-<em>

_Or rather-He passed us-_  
><em>The Dews drew quivering and chill-<em>  
><em>For only Gossamer, my Gown-<em>  
><em>My Tippet-only Tulle-<em>

_We paused before a House that seemed_  
><em>A Swelling of the Ground-<em>  
><em>The Roof was scarcely visible-<em>  
><em>The Cornice-in the Ground-<em>

_Since then-'tis Centuries-and yet_  
><em>Feels shorter than the Day<em>  
><em>I first surmised the Horses' Heads<em>  
><em>Were toward Eternity-"<em>

- Emily Dickinson,  
><em>Because I could not stop for Death<em>

* * *

><p>The Dursley household was quiet on that late September evening in 1989. Inside the house, gathered by the fire as rain battered away at the windows, sat a family of three; the Dursleys, of course. A father, a burly, whale of a man with wiry whiskers.<p>

A mother, who was depressingly thin and had a drawn, life-worn face that gave her an overall unattractive appearance. Then, there was their son. A rotund boy who more than obviously took after his father.

How the woman had managed to birth such a giant was anyone's guess. His name was Dudley. Dudley Dursley. It was as if Fate had decided to play another cruel joke and gave the boy looks to match his horrid name…

However, in this house there was one more, though he was hardly regarded as family. Obviously so, as his residence in the home was inside a cupboard…

The last child's name was Harry, just Harry, or as the Dursleys were more opt to call him, 'Freak'. Why would any family name a child such, you ask?

Simple. The boy was _magical_. Yes, Harry, a nine year old boy, was a wizard. The Dursleys were not, merely his mother's estranged family. As far as Harry knew, his true family had died, an awful car accident.

His father had been drunk, manic drunk, and had driven headlong into a large truck. His mother and father had died instantly upon impact. Harry was given to his only living relatives so that they would raise him. Yes, that's right, given to his magic hating relatives.

Whoever made up that plan, well, they needed to take a serious reality check…

* * *

><p>In the summer of 1991, Harry turned eleven. It was on one specific summer day that something truly odd happened…<p>

Harry was awakened as always by the repetitive hammering of a meaty fist on his cupboard door. Inside his cupboard was quite barren; a cot, worn and ripped in places, a small shelf above the cot where his head would lay, filled with an array of broken toys, all of which used to belong to his cousin, and, in the very back, a small sketch pad, resting upon an easel.

The pad was marred with reds and blues, swirled together and, quite honestly, nothing of much sense. A rough horse, white wings shooting up from its back covered one of the corners. A red haired woman whose lower torso was that of a long, green scaled fish occupied the opposite corner.

Both mythical creatures had been crossed out with a thick, black marker…

Harry stretched mightily and got onto his knees, the cupboard was not high enough to be stood in. With quite a bit of maneuvering, Harry managed to change out of his night clothes, hand-me-downs from his cousin, and into another pair of day clothes, equally as large.

The latch that held his door shut at night was unlocked and so Harry slipped out, only to be shoved back inside roughly by his cousin. The blow delivered was harsher than it could have been, or perhaps Harry was just a mite too thin.

Either way, he picked himself up once more and trudged into the kitchen, shooting hateful glances at his cousin who had just slipped through the door. As he entered, his aunt pushed him towards the stove, "It's my Dudder's birthday, boy, so cook something nice!"

She whipped around to speak with her son, standing by the kitchen table, whining about an apparently lack of presents, "Why are there only thirty-six presents here?" he screamed, "Last year there were thirty-seven! THIRTY-SEVEN!"

Harry's uncle beamed proudly at his son, while his aunt stuttered out, "I- it's alright, Duddykins, when we go into town, we'll buy you two more! Doesn't that sound lovely?"

The pudgy boy pursed his lips and seemed sated. Harry merely rolled his eyes and cracked another egg open over the skillet, listening to the sizzle and inhaling the scent of cooking food. As far as his 'relatives' were concerned, this was as close as he was allowed to get to their food.

"BOY!" his uncle called gruffly, "Is our breakfast ready yet?"

Harry brought down several plates and laid them on the counter. Casting a sly glance at his uncle, he scooped two fully cooked eggs onto the plates. The third egg, the one which had barely been in the pan for a minute, he piled onto his uncle's plate.

The man probably wouldn't even notice, after all, with sunny-side ups, who can tell?

"Here you are uncle Vernon, aunt Petunia, cousin," he said as he placed the plates in front of their prospective owners with a flourish. His uncle glowered at him before swiftly digging into his food. Dudley was already halfway through, and his aunt had merely nibbled on a piece of toast.

Harry stood there and stared for a moment until, growing increasingly uncomfortable, his uncle tossed a piece of bread at him. Harry caught it effortlessly, knowing full well that his uncle had intended to drop it on the floor, and walked back to his cupboard, shutting the kitchen door as he went.

At the moment, as Harry nibbled absently on his toast, everything was bearable. Though only just…

* * *

><p>The trip to the zoo, a planned event for his cousin's birthday, went well. For Harry and no one else. His uncle, who had been driving that day, had all at once began to feel ill at ease, mainly inside his stomach.<p>

At a red light, the man had clasped a hand over his large belly, which occasionally brushed the steering wheel. A grotesque gurgling noise was echoing out from the distended bulge. With a groan, a swift right turn, and the squealing of tires, the Dursley's car was strewn along the curb.

Mr. Dursley soon exited the vehicle, one hand over his stomach, the other over his mouth, and ran off into the nearest building. Harry, staring after the man for a minute, soon came to his senses. This was his chance!

Closing his eyes a fraction, moving no other part of his body, save for the silent rise and fall of his chest, Harry reached over for the handle of the car door. His aunt and cousin were still leaning out the windows, shouting for Vernon.

With a click that made Harry wince, and dart his eyes over to his relatives, he pushed outward, cursing the moan of the metal machine. His aunt was oblivious. His cousin turned to see the source of the noise.

Harry froze, wide eyed, as he met his cousin's curious gaze. The large boy sneered nastily and gave a little mock wave as his aunt screeched on, oblivious, _"Goodbye forever, Freak."_

Harry scowled at his monstrous oaf of a cousin before crawling slowly outside the car, still under the watchful, cow-like gaze of his cousin Dudley. He breathed in and out evenly until his left foot touched the pavement. Then the other.

His entire body out, he watched in faint horror as Dudley's mouth opened wide with a scream of abject terror, "_Mummy!_" his gelatin limbs flailing in Harry's general direction. Mrs. Dursley turned and, with a silent gasp of her own, turned back to where her husband had emerged from the building, wiping sweat off of his brow, "Vernon! The boy, the boy's running away!"

The fat man leaned his head to see around the car and, sure enough, there was Harry, standing like a deer caught in headlights. The man let out a roaring shout and ran forward, quite fast for a man of his size, intent on catching Harry.

At the loud shout from his uncle, Harry shook out of his stupor, slammed the car door, turned, and bolted down the street, running as fast and as far as his thin legs could carry him. He never spared a glance behind him, not even when he swore he felt hot, sticky breath down his neck.

Harry, whose last name was unknown to him, not yet eleven years old, had ran away from the only home he had ever known. How long had he been waiting for this moment? To break free of the servile life he had been raised into? How long had he waited to be free…?

* * *

><p>After several blocks, Harry began to tire, his legs burned, along with his chest, his heart hammering against his ribs from within. He had ducked and dived into crowd after crowd, striving with all his might to get away.<p>

Ever since he was a small child, the Dursleys had been cruel. It was because they knew Harry was special. Once, when Dudley and his friends had been enjoying the only sport they knew, 'Harry Hunting', Harry himself had been cowering behind a tall bush.

As the sound of crunching leaves drew nearer, Harry had closed his eyes. And opened them to find himself on top of a nearby building. When the fire department had brought him home, his aunt and uncle had been overjoyed to see him.

And then the men had left and shut the door. Harry had immediately been knocked to the ground, his eyes spinning, his uncle hovering over him with a furious expression on his face, shouting at Harry. How dare he show off his freakishness? How dare he shame the very people who had raised him? How _dare _he blame his _disease_ on Dudley!

Harry was six then. And it was in that moment, that he decided he hated his 'family', and that he swore to himself, whenever he had the chance, whenever he was able, he would break away from these people. He, Harry, not 'Freak', would be as special as he knew himself to be…

As the rain began to pour, Harry turned into a dark alley, wondering momentarily if he should have at least taken the atlas out of the car first. Shaking the water off of his hair and wiping his glasses off on his shirt, Harry sat down in the dirty alley on top of a broken wooden crate, carelessly thrown aside.

He thought deeply, which always serves as a beacon for the most dismal of thoughts, and pondered how he would eat, how he would bathe, how he would _live_ like this? Would he live as some sort of young vagabond, traipsing through the streets of London?

He sighed and nestled closer to the wall, as far out of the rain as he could manage. His tired eyes drifted shut, the sound of thunder playing its own, boisterous lullaby for all the lost and weary…

* * *

><p>"Hey."<p>

Harry groaned and turned his head. A finger was steadily poking him in the face.

"Hey, c'mon, mate, wake up."

Harry's eyes fluttered open and he came face-to-face, or in his case, face-to-nose, with someone. Said someone, clasped their nose with a strangled cry as Harry did the same with his head. When he looked up into the faces of the two children in front of him, he wasn't sure what to do.

"Who are you two?" he asked suspiciously, glancing back and forth between them. The smaller of the two was a boy, a few years younger than himself. Shortly cropped mud covered hair covered a large portion of his face. Every so often, a thin, equally dirty hand would brush multiple strands away, revealing bright blue eyes that shone with mischievousness.

The other was a girl, much taller than the boy and a few years over Harry's own age. She had hair the same colour as the boys, only it hung in a loose braid down to the center of her back and held in an old baseball cap, dark brown eyes, and an irritated scowl on her face.

Each of them were dressed in mud-splattered, well-worn shirts and pants that were much too big in the boy's case. The shirts bearing graphics from various places in the city; tourist's clothes. Harry wondered if they were runaways too.

The girl spoke first, "We should be asking you that!" she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest in an indignant manner, "Who are you and why are you on our crate?"

"Your crate?" Harry asked, standing up and looking at the now broken wood. The girl moved forward and shoved him out of the way, moving to kneel beside it, "Bloody hell, the barmy broke it!" she shouted back to the other boy.

Harry looked at her strangely, "What's so important about that busted up crate?"

She turned to glare at him, "One o' the grocers down the streets leaves the food and stuff that out of date in that crate so kids like me and Arty can pick it up!" she spat with vehemence, "Now the crates busted so he won't put it in there 'till he gets a new one, else he'll get ticketed for littering!"

He suddenly felt ashamed, looking at the whimpering boy holding his growling stomach. The boy walked up and touched the girl's shoulder, "Christy, can we… can we go and snatch up some-?"

"No," the girl cut him off instantly. With a growing smirk, she turned to Harry, "You." she said, pointing a finger in his direction, "You owe us food. Give us some money or somethin'."

Harry frowned, "I don't have any money. I ran away."

The girl frowned back, "Well, go back and get some money, I don' care if you steal it or ask for it! We need food!"

Harry thought for a moment, "So, you need food, right?"

Both of the two children nodded.

"And I need a place to stay. If I bring you food, will you take me to some place where I can sleep?"

The two glanced at each other and, with a nod from the girl and a shaky nod from the boy, both street-going children struck out their hands. The girl grinned, showing off a few missing teeth, "I'm Christabelle, an' this is Arthur. What's your name?"

Harry shook both hands at once, albeit a little awkwardly, "Harry, nice to meet you. So, we have a deal?"

The two nodded at him and the girl gripped his hand tighter, "As long as you bring us the food, we'll let you stay with us. If you can't bring anything, you're on your own, got it?"

Harry nodded, "Are you two going to wait here?"

The boy nodded rapidly, "Bring cake! And, and ice cream! Oh, and-!"

The girl cuffed him sharply on the head with her bony knuckles, "No junk!" she scolded, turning to Harry, "Bread. Bread and water, canned foods, fruits, stuff that won't spoil. No microwavables!"

Harry nodded and drew in a long breath. The wasn't exactly what he had had in mind when he had decided to run away, but it was better than sleeping on an old, broken, moldy crate in a dark alley. He hooked a right out of the alley, glancing back once at the two who were peering around the corner at him.

He flashed them a cocky smirk and continued walking up the street. From what they had said, there was a grocery store up ahead. Perfect.

* * *

><p>The store was nearly empty as Harry walked inside. He garnered suspicious looks from both customers and clerks alike. He closed his eyes and leaned against one of the isles, murmuring silently to himself, "<em>They can't see me, they can't see me, no one can see me…<em>"

And as soon as he moved from that spot, no one could.

Every wary glance that had only moments ago been directed at him, was now averted, it was as if Harry had vanished, taking all thought of himself with him. He slyly moved through the isles, grabbing packages bags of bread wrapped in plastic.

He nestled a few bottles of water under his arms, and, with his fingers stretched to their limits, he managed to crab a few cans of randomly assorted food shoved into the tins. He hurried back to the front of the store, passersby none the wiser.

At the checkout counter, he knelt down, still unnoticed by the crowds, seemingly too busy with their own purchases to bother with the shoplifting child. On a swiveling rack were plastic bags, he grabbed a few off and threw his prizes inside, counting as he went.

Three bags of bread, five water bottles, and four canned jars of… something…

He nodded to himself and hoisted the bag onto his shoulder. Before he had taken even a step, a hand landed on his open shoulder, "Where do you think you're going with that?" a low voice whispered into his ear.

No one else appeared to see the steadily rising commotion. Harry glanced behind him at the man. Well over six feet with a heavily muscled build, the man was covered in pinkish red splotches on his red apron.

Harry's heart was pounding rapidly as he smiled nervously at the man, "I'm going home, sir," he answered sweetly, "Just a few blocks down."

The man smiled nastily back, "Where's your mum and dad?"

Harry's smile faltered, and he adopted a whimpering tone, "M- my mum's sick…"

"And your dad?"

Harry played it for all it was worth, "H- he's d- drunk…" he sobbed lightly, his bottom lip quivering, "If I don't go home right now… he… _he'll hit me again_…"

He stared up teary-eyed at the butcher, who was looking everywhere on his face at once. The hard eyes softened slightly before the man released his shoulder, "Fine, go on home." the man leaned closer, whispering harshly, "And you tell your da that if he wants a fight, to pick it with a man his own damned size, you hear me?"

Harry smiled angelically up at the man, pleased with himself for pulling of this facade so well, "Y- yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

The man grunted lowly and turned around, heading back to his department. Harry, elated, arms full of bags filled with food, ran out of the store and down the street until he came to that first alleyway.

Sitting on the cobblestones were Christabelle and Arthur, drawing meaningless shapes into the slowly drying mud. The girl jerked up to her feet when Harry's shadow filtered through the alley, only to relax slightly when she recognized him.

Almost instantly, her eyes fell on the bags, filled to the brim since they were quite small, "You got food!" she proclaimed, eyes wide with hunger. She looked up gratefully into his face as she nodded, "Alright, let me see."

Her hands reached for the bags, but Harry pulled them away, "Take me to where _we're_ going to stay."

She grinned at him, "At least you aren't dumb," she laughed, then turned back down the alley, grabbing Arthur's hand. She turned her head around and called to Harry, walking all the while, "We live this way, bring the food!"

Harry nodded as he jogged after the two, the plastic bags of food rustling as he went.

* * *

><p>After a lot of twists and turns down dark, damp alleys, crawling under fences, and avoiding tall, gangly adults, lurking in the shadows, the three arrived at a decrepit apartment building, roughly two stories tall.<p>

The open portions on the second floor were banked off by metal rails. Leaning halfway over one of these was a tall, skinny boy with a pair of binoculars, one lens of which was cracked down the middle.

The girl waved her hands up into the air, garnering the other boy's attention, "MAX!" she shouted loudly, waving her arms about, "WE'RE BACK! OPEN UP!"

The boy on the rails nodded sharply and put the binoculars down, turned around and went inside the building. After a loud series of knocks and thumps from within, the girl and younger boy rushed forward towards the large, metal door that led into the building.

Harry ran forward also, after taking a few seconds, and all of them were rushed inside the now open door, "Get in, get in!"

As soon as all three were inside the building, the metal door slammed shut, Harry watched as the taller boy from the upper floor held it shut with his body as he latched the multitude of locks keeping it shut. There had to be at least ten of them lining the door, from sliding locks, to chains, every lock you could have thought possible.

Harry learned instantly that it was a good thing as a loud bang sounded from the outside, "YOU DAMNED BRATS!" a heavily accented voice yelled, "YOU FUCKING PACK RATS! LET ME IN, GIVE ME SOME FOOD!"

Christabelle leaned against the door, loudly making a neenering noise at the gruff sounding man outside, "Nyah, nyah! No food for you!" she cackled as she turned to Harry, Arthur laughing giddily beside her, "Well, here we are, home sweet home!"

The taller boy, in his late teens perhaps, stepped forward looking curiously at Harry. He was thin, it showed on every inch of him, from the ribs that were glaringly obvious through his thin t-shirt, to his drawn face. Curly dark blonde hair grew oddly, some places longer than others. He looked like the victim of a very poorly executed hack-job.

His eyes were a muted blue, his mouth curved into a grin. His face and clothes were just a filthy as the others'.

"I don't remember sending out three…" he muttered humorously as he turned to Christabelle, "Another stowaway?"

She flushed and nodded, "He broke the grocer's crate so me and Arty made him get us food from the store." she looked up at the taller boy with a smile, "He brought a lot, Max! And he didn't have anyone chasin' him or nothing!"

The boy, Max, turned to Harry, "'S that so?" he grinned widely, slapping Harry on the shoulder, "Well, little runaway, thanks for the food!"

Christabelle tugged on Max's sleeve, "I… I kinda promised he could stay here if he got us food…" she muttered, glancing nervously up at the taller boy.

He shrugged and gestured for them to follow him into another room. Harry followed after, still clutching tightly to the food bags. Inside the next room were blankets, lots of old, worn out blankets, the cushioning tearing out in places.

In the center of what once must have been the lobby, a long line of cardboard boxes were stacked, one beside the other. There were three cushions on top of the blankets, making makeshift seats. The taller boy walked behind the old counter where clerks usually stood to check in guests, and came back a few seconds later with another cushion which he placed down beside the others.

Harry cautiously handed him the bags when he gestured for them. The bags were emptied onto the table, the three gazed at them with wide, excited eyes. The oldest, Max, turned to Harry, "Not bad," he complimented, "Not bad at all!"

The three sat down and Christabelle waved Harry over, patting the seat beside her. Arthur tore into one of the bags of bread, pulling out a pre-sliced piece and cramming it hungrily into his mouth, moaning in appreciation as he did so.

Christabelle followed suite, as Max handed a slice to Harry, asking with curiosity, "So, kiddo, what's your name, and what are you doing out on the streets?"

Harry moved the untouched bread away from his mouth, "I'm Harry." he stated, glancing nervously at the three staring at him, "I ran away from my aunt and uncle."

Max frowned, "No parents?"

Harry shook his head, "They… they died."

Christabelle gave him a sympathetic look as Arthur asked, "Why d'you live with your aunt and uncle?" his mouth spitting bits of bread and saliva all across the cardboard table. No one seemed to mind overmuch.

Harry nibbled off a piece of bread before he answered, "I don't have any other family." he consented, adding, "But they hated me, because I was… different." he finished, promising not to add anymore to what he had already said. He had no intention of these people running him out.

Their reactions were unexpected. Arthur's eyes widened, his mouth in a grin, showing off his chewed up food as he turned to Max, effectively spraying the older boy with food bits, "Max! Harry's special too!" he turned to Christabelle, an indignant look on his face, "_Told_ you so, Christy, told you _so_!"

Max wiped his sleeves over his face, getting rid of the half-chewed bread. Christabelle stuck out her tongue at Arthur, who quickly followed suite. Harry frowned, expecting questions.

Max grinned at him, "Different as in, you do magic, Harry?"

Harry didn't like that word, _magic_. It was instinctual, the Dursley's influence. He nodded anyway, "People only see me if I want them too. I can disappear and show up somewhere else. Is that… is that magic?"

If anything, Arthur's face grew brighter, "Uh huh!" he shouted, and his hair turned bright gold, "Like me! I change myself!" his nose extending and retracting in a ridiculous fashion.

Max grinned at the younger boy's antics and nodded, "Yeah, that's magic, alright." he said, standing up and stretching out his arms, "Arthur's our little changeling, Christy's like me, Muggleborn, you see?" at Harry's confused look he added, "Ah, it means our parents weren't magical."

"So then how are we… magic?"

Max shrugged, "I dunno, recessive, mutant genes?" he guessed, "Either way, I guess you're a Muggleborn too, huh?"

Harry nodded, after all, it sounded right. According to the Dursleys, his parents were nothing but worthless bums, "So… what do people like us do? Besides magic?"

Max sighed and Christabelle cast Harry a hard glance, "Nothing," she spat, "No one wants a Muggleborn, because we're not pure wizards or witches. We're just…"

"Bantha fodder?" Arthur supplied.

Harry frowned at the words.

Christabelle explained with an irritated look on her face, "We have an old television and a VCR player, but the only movie we could scrounge up was _Star Wars_. Arthur's hooked on it, constant re-runs."

Harry merely nodded, the Dursleys hadn't allowed anything out of the ordinary into their home. Well, besides Harry, of course. As the three stood up, slowly, smiling in their food induced half-stupors, Harry stood as well.

Max led him into one of the rooms down the hall. As the door swung open, he told Harry, "Well, since you brought food, and Christy promised, this is your room now." he said, "I know it doesn't look like much, but it's one of the cleaner room in here."

The floor was covered in bits of torn, yellowed newspaper. The paint was peeling off the walls, and the bed had been stripped down, leaving only a thin mattress and an even thinner sheet.

"It's perfect." Harry said, honestly grateful for the large room, dirty though it was.

"If you need any of us, I'm down the hall and to the right. First door. Christy's on the left, but you probably don't want to wake her." he added with a wink and a grin, "Welcome to the family, Harry."

As the door closed and Harry sat down on the musty smelling mattress, dusting off certain… objects with his fingers, he smiled faintly. He was free of the Dursleys at last, he had a place to stay, company, possibly even friends.

Also, he was a wizard. Everything was right with the world. At least in Harry's small piece of it…

* * *

><p>Author's Notes: I am so so so very happy to have this back up after so long. It was my second favorite of all<br>of the stories I wrote, and it just floors me to have it back.

Be advised, this fic has a lot of harsh elements and very many things that could possibly be triggering later on (extreme and detailed descriptions of violence, attempted rape of minor characters, torture, ect...) This is an eventual Dark!Harry story, and I do hope you enjoy it. Character sketches will be available on my Tumblr shortly after chapter 2 is posted :)


	2. As sure as the sun

Where Eternity Sleeps

* * *

><p>Chapter 2; <em>'As sure as the sun'<br>_

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_I know as my life grows older,  
>And mine eyes have clearer sight,<br>That under each rank of wrong, somewhere  
>There lies the root of right;<br>That each sorrow has its purpose,  
>By the sorrowing oft unguessed,<br>But as sure as the sun brings morning,  
>Whatever is – is best.<em>

_I know that each sinful action,_  
><em>As sure as the night brings shade,<em>  
><em>Is somewhere, sometime punished,<em>  
><em>Though the hour be long delayed.<em>  
><em>I know that the soul is sided<em>  
><em>Sometimes by the heart's unrest,<em>  
><em>And to grow means often to suffer –<em>  
><em>But whatever is – is best.<em>

_I know there are no errors_  
><em>In the great Eternal plan,<em>  
><em>And all things work together<em>  
><em>For the final good of man.<em>  
><em>And I know as my soul speeds onward,<em>  
><em>In its grand Eternal quest,<em>  
><em>I shall say as I look back earthward,<em>  
><em>Whatever is – is best."<em>

- Ella Wheeler Wilcox,  
><em>Whatever is, is best<br>_

* * *

><p>Many wizards wore extravagantly pointed hats atop their heads. Some others wore more Muggle attire to blend in. One man in particular, a weak, sickly looking creature, had opted to wrap a turban tightly around his head.<p>

The man was such a sight that he received odd looks from wizards and Muggles alike. Every so often, the man would wince and glance towards his head, whisper silently, and continue walking.

Such a bizarre character attracted a large amount of unwanted attention, and most annoyingly, ridicule. Several Muggle children pulled at the loose strings of his turban until he had chased them off, the little heathens laughing as they ran.

He scowled into the bright sun. Today was just as odd as he was, not a cloud in the sky. A sharp pang in the back of his skull urged him onwards. He had a job to apply for…

* * *

><p>Harry shuffled under a thin sheet, not quite warm, not quite cold, just a balanced mix of the two. His head lifted sleepily as he rubbed at his eyes with one hand. He twisted his body so that he was sitting upright in on the mattress that served as his bed.<p>

_'I guess yesterday was real…' _he thought to himself as he got out of the bed, turning to fix up the sheet. He wasn't used to leaving things in disarray.

Harry brushed his fingers over his clothes, the same that he had worn yesterday, and walked over to the door. Pushing it open, he stuck his head out and cast a furtive glance down the hallway. Seeing no one, he stepped out, and into the lobby room, the blankets of which carpeted his bare feet.

The food was still on the table, the bag of bread left only partially shut, the twisting tab affixed poorly to the plastic bag. Harry walked over and re-did it, eyeing the fly that just so happened to be staring up at the bag with what Harry guessed was hunger.

He put the bag back onto the table and walked out of the lobby. He padded softly down the halls and up to the second floor. The railing on the steps was rusted and worn, some of the pegs popping out from where they were once attached to the steps.

"Harry?"

He quickly turned around. Arthur was standing at the foot of the stairs, rubbing at his eyes. His mouth opened in a wide yawn as he sleepily walked up to where Harry was standing, "What'cha doin', Harry?"

Harry hummed lightly, "I'm just looking around, I guess." he answered and the younger boy nodded.

"I'll go with you, I can show you Max's look-out spot!" he exclaimed none too loudly, all traces of sleep gone from his face and he tapped up the stairs in his un-laced shoes. Turning around, he waved a hand up at Harry, "C'mon, we can watch the drifters!"

Harry frowned in confusion, wondering what drifters were, but followed anyway. They scaled the wearing steps and walked onto the second level. Arthur approached one door painted sloppily in red, turning the knob silently.

They stepped into a large room filled with various bottles, each of which was filled with a different colour liquid, all scattered atop heavy shelving. They passed by all of them in favour of the sliding door at the other side of the room.

Arthur pulled the door open and Harry stepped out. The younger boy shut the door behind them.

The outstep was narrow, and none too clean. It was evident that a great number of birds frequented the dwelling. To the right was a small pair of binoculars. Harry's eyebrows rose in recognition. This was where Max had been standing yesterday.

Arthur tugged at his hand, speaking in loud whispers as he leaned precariously over the rail, "Look down there, Harry," he instructed, ducking his head low and pointing to a tall, lanky man, "That's the guy who always begs us for food!"

Harry nodded remembering the loud person who had slammed so harshly on the door. From what he could see, the man looked sick, his eyes red and watery, and his hair was torn out in places. Harry froze as the man looked up at them.

He made a strange gesture with his hand, before grimacing and walking away in a huff. Harry turned to ask, "Is he _always _around here?"

Arthur shook his head and grinned, "Nope, only when we have food."

Harry frowned, slightly off put that a total stranger, and a full grown adult at that, was stalking their building each time there was food. He was suddenly alarmed. He had only been there a day and was already beginning to refer to it as 'theirs'.

Arthur looked up with a sudden intake of breath and pulled at Harry, making him look up. Harry followed the trail made in the air by the younger boy's finger. Up high, flying closer towards them and beginning to slow was a large, brown blur of feathers.

"What is that?"

"The mail." was the answer.

As the blur encroached upon the balcony, it became clearer. Long talons laced about the rusting rail that encompassed the ledge as the creature, the owl, shook its feathered body before thrusting out its mouth, waving a thick paper in front of Arthur. Harry noticed a small, leather bag wrapped securely about the bird's torso.

The younger boy reached for the paper, but retracted his hand as a shrill, disgruntled sound came from the owl's muffled beak, the sharpness digging into the paper.

The boy frowned at the bird and turned around, rustling in the corner of the balcony. He turned around once more, a small box in his hands. Arthur opened the lid and withdrew barely a handful of small, bronze pellets before depositing them into the bag.

The owl dropped the paper at their feet with a happier hooting noise, mischievously nipping at Arthur's hair as he bent down for the paper, before flapping its wings and taking off, leaving behind scratch marks on the rail.

There were plenty more…

Harry watched as Arthur tucked the paper under his arm and placed the box gingerly down on the balcony, walking through the door and stopping, "C'mon, Harry!" Arthur called, "We have to wake up Max and Christy!"

The boy ran the rest of the way out of the cluttered room. Harry followed after, not remembering to shut and lock the balcony door in his haste.

* * *

><p>The application went smoothly.<p>

Quirrell could hardly believe his luck! That imbecilic oaf of a Headmaster admitted him as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in mere minutes!

With no one watching, as he was safe in his new quarters, he undid his turban, sighing with joint-felt relief as a wave of dark magic flooded into the surrounding area.

The rooms he had been given were a dramatic improvement from his previous living arrangements. He had a large bed, a fireplace, his own personal lavatory, and, to make things even more wondrous, he was located in the far end of the castle, which meant he was also far from the Headmaster's notoriously prying eyes.

Quirrell pondered for a moment how his master, such a powerful Dark Lord, could ever had been troubled by the bumbling idiot that Quirrell had seen…

A rasping voice broke the silence, "_Be silent, Quirrell_," it hissed, a displeasingly high sound, "_Though he may not look powerful, Dumbledore is my greatest and only adversary. You would do well not to underestimate him._"

He swallowed, the noise seeming unnaturally loud in the still room, "Y- yes my Lord," he stuttered, reverting to his weaker, more pathetic sounding self, "I will be cautious." as an afterthought, he pondered silently, "S- should I begin searching for the Ston-"

"_Silence!_" the voice reprimanded, "_Searching now would be futile and would also arouse suspicion. Be patient, my host. Soon, soon I shall have what I desire, and your loyalty shall be richly rewarded…_"

The frail looking man grinned widely, "Thank you, my Lord."

* * *

><p>Breakfastlunch consisted of a piece of bread each, along with the opening of one can. The thick newspaper was resting untouched on the table.

The four of them were gathered in the entry room once again, seated patiently at the make-shift table as Christabelle wrestled with a can labeled, 'Peaches'. She had a blunt knife in one hand, the dented can in the other. The remaining children watched with rapt attention as she stabbed and violated the can well beyond recognition.

"Fine!" she yelled, dropping the knife harshly on the table and tossing the can to Max with a less-than-perfect glare, "You open it!"

The elder boy grinned and took up the knife. As he balanced the can on his knee, he turned his head to Harry, "Hey, you can read, can't you?"

Harry's head jerked up at the sudden question, "Yes, I can. Why?"

Max pointed the knife towards the newspaper, "Can you read off the news for us while I open up this little bugger?" he asked, bumping the can up and down on his knee. The sloshing noises from the peaches within sounding oddly forced, due to the can's earlier mutilation.

Harry picked up the paper, noticing how both Christabelle and Arthur immediately turned their attentions to him. As he folded it open, looking at the headline, Harry gasped and quickly dropped the paper as if it were on fire.

"Paper cut?" Arthur asked curiously.

Harry shook his head, "The pictures _move_!" he exclaimed in disbelief, staring down at the paper on the table, watching as the people on the printed pages smiled and walked about, oblivious to everything.

Christabelle laughed and nodded once, watching Max struggle with the can struggling with the can, "Magic, Harry, remember?" she said, as Max letting out a disgruntled huff at the metal can, "Bloody hell, open, damn you!" the knife came down once more onto the sealed lid.

Harry looked back to the newspaper, slightly less shocked than before, picked it up gingerly, and began to read, "Terror strikes London. After a peaceful ten years, shocking rumors of Death Eaters begin to surface. Just last night, a Muggleborn couple was found burned alive inside their homes. A sickly green Dark Mark hovering in the sky above the smoldering embers."

Harry frowned in a mixture of confusion and disgust, turning to Christabelle, "What does that mean? What's a Death Eater?"

She didn't meet his eyes, her face looking deathly pale, "Shhh, keep reading!"

Harry sighed and reminded himself to ask again once he was done, "Minister Fudge denies all claims of the Dark forces returning, stating in one exclusive interview the day before the arson/murder that, 'the citizens have no need to fear. These so called Death Eaters are merely a hoax. We have no reason to be afraid'. The Minister has come under heavy fire due to the rising number of both Muggleborn and Half-Blood deaths. The toll has risen higher than it has ever been… more on page six."

Harry finished and looked around. All three of the others had solemn looks on their faces.

Confused, he asked quietly, "What does all of this mean?"

Max sighed and propped his elbows onto the cardboard, "It means we're all in trouble," he muttered darkly, before shaking his head.

"In trouble how?" Harry asked cautiously.

Max sighed, "I forgot, you don't know," he said, taking in a deep breath and delving into an explanation, "So, a long while back, a crazed wizard set himself up as something the wizard folks call a 'Dark Lord'. What that is, we don't really know. Anyway, this Dark Lord had it out for people like us, not pure wizards, so he gathered a number of wizards who were and that felt the same way."

Harry nodded, understanding somewhat.

"They hunted down and killed as many of us as they could until about… ten years ago, I think. The Dark Lord just… disappeared. His followers, the Death Eaters, ran off into hiding, some went off to prison. Not a Muggle's prison, mind you, but the worst kind for a wizard. The kind that saps all the magic and happiness straight out of you."

Arthur tugged on Christabelle's sleeve and whispered something lowly. She tensed and swatted him away, turning her attention back to Harry and Max.

Harry frowned and asked, "So, the Death Eaters don't like us because we're not… pure?"

Max nodded harshly, "Yep, pretty indecent of 'em, isn't it?"

Harry hummed, "Yeah, but… what happened to the Dark Lord? Did he die?"

"We honestly don't know," was Christabelle's reply, "A lot of people will tell you that he's dead and gone. Others, though, they think it's all one big conspiracy, a hoax, you know? Especially with all the Death Eaters running about nowadays…"

* * *

><p>Running.<p>

At the moment, that was all she knew. The steady thudding of her bare feet on the pavement coupled with the pounding of her heart. Both sounds seeming to echo a deadly beat within her skull.

Her chest and sides ached from exertion, but she couldn't stop. She refused to stop and let them have their way. She knew she had to find help. Of course, she couldn't ask those around her, they were Muggles, after all.

If only she could find a witch or wizard… Good luck with that in Kensington. The streets were crowded, filled to the brim, and who could pick out a magical being from one who was not in a place like this?

Oh, but she was not being chased by any normal creature. She had werewolves following her, and they had her scent. They had for quite a while now. They couldn't attack her openly in the streets, not with all the mundanes about, but they could follow, they could hunt.

And so they did…

* * *

><p>Harry's particular ability of making himself un-noticeable was highly valued by the runaways. As such, Harry would more often than not be the one sent out for food. Max looked too emaciated for anyone to believe him if he told them he wasn't out to steal their wares right out from under their pompous noses.<p>

Max always said they could never have enough canned food, even if they did struggle to open it. Harry made a mental note to swipe a can opener.

Christabelle was not subtle at all, and her temper was sure to cause a scene if she were to be caught shoplifting. As for Arthur, he was simply too young. The group could have used his youthfulness to their advantage, but then again, the burly adults who easily tripled his size could and probably would hurt him if he so much as touched something with his small, dirtied fingers.

So, they set up a schedule. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Christabelle would go with Harry to gather supplies. Her job would be to guard his back and watch for gaps in Harry's invisibility. On the other days, usually when food was short or special things were needed, Arthur would join in, though he had some trouble being serious about the task at hand.

Arthur had even made up a little tune which he would whistle on the way back to their building, "Now they see you, now they don't, cause you're no ordinary bloke!"

Max found it hilarious, laughing loudly at the dinner table while the young boy had pranced about, singing Harry's 'anthem', sneaking under the blankets and popping out once more, in a parody of Harry's skill. Christabelle fought with a grin. Eventually, the group was laughing together.

For a time, the young runaways were happy, even as the world around them grew steadily darker. That all changed in May of the next year. It began as does a small ember. If left untended, it will burst into roaring flames.

Unfortunately, no one was able to extinguish that fire in time…

Harry was twelve when it started. Years and years later, the event would have been documented as one of the darkest moments in wizarding history, standing on par with the scourge of Britain caused by Gellert Grindelwald.

It was 1992 in London. The Muggleborn Wars had begun…

* * *

><p>Author's Notes:<p>

As promised, here is chapter 2, mostly build-up for the main plot. The early character sketches (from about 2 years ago when this fic was just barely a baby)  
>are up on my Tumblr (lordsoflazarus). Everything for this fic will be tagged 'WES' or 'my art'.<p> 


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